“A fundamental dilemma for autobiographical essayists is how exactly to navigate between the necessity to write and the sinking realization that it may not really matter to anyone else. All writers, all artists, deal with this problem, of course, especially at this point in time, when via the blogosphere and social media literally millions of autobiographical missives are launched weekly, each voice clamoring for an audience of careful, sympathetic readers.”
I can really relate to this quote from Joe Bonomo’s post “The Silhouette,” on his blog No Such Thing as Was. Recently I read a classic memoir I found tedious (more another time on that book) and am now reading a celebrated one that deals with an extremely dysfunctional family but doesn’t engage me. The writer has “great” stories, because his life was so disordered, but why should anyone else care? Well, there’s morbid interest, surely a lesser value. There’s also the writer’s need to testify and ours to receive. There’s his attempt to render life’s jagged experiences artfully, which appears to be his motive—to make something, as Sartre said, that has been made of him.
And I think this memoirist was motivated by more than sheer ego, as I hope I am, so what gives? (Halfway through the book, I think it’s starting to take off.) Why do some writers draw us into their personal stories without offending us, and how might we do it ourselves? There seems something larger about successful personal writing that transcends mere egoistic display, but this is a slippery thing I don’t understand. I think my own motive in writing a memoir is, at base, to share my experience of love and loss. But ego can creep in.
I remember when I was getting my MFA and giving a reading after I’d been writing hard for a whole year. What I read was personal, the seeds of my current book, but I shared it in a generous spirit: gee whiz, look at this. There was an impersonal quality to my feeling about the writing; I was proud, sure, but had a certain distance; it was clear to me that the work and I were separate entities. Then, a year later, at my reading for my graduation, ego struck. For some reason I was insecure, and my desire was for attention—more for me than for the work, I think; the experience made me feel needy and craven. The writing itself was okay, but my rambling, needless prologue, had I been listening in the audience, would have caused me to grind my teeth, or walk out.
One of the things I learned writing professionally for magazines and newspapers was that the more you work on a piece, the more you see it as an object outside yourself and the less it functions as an ego extension. You feel, at some level, frustrated with a work that’s near completion, especially if it’s good, and welcome help. All editorial suggestions may not please you, but they can’t offend.
I’m still learning how to use the self in the essay or journalistic piece; since each work is different I always will be. In his environmental journalism, Michael Pollan is really good at making himself a character in order to further the story. (See an earlier post, “Michael Pollan on narrative journalism.”) He says it’s vital to show his evolution, his blundering, his process, in order to avoid the dull journalistic know-it-all voice. Readers surely do crave the personal and also to be on the journey with the writer. This is very subtle, though, and still begs the question of why some deeply personal stories pull me in and others leave me indifferent or repelled. Wish I knew.